The truth hurts. Everyone.

A favorite tale from last year's Fijian adventure involves sitting on mats on the porch of 'aunt' and 'uncle's' house in Nausori with a group of local men. Night air drunk from tropical downpours. Bowls of brown grog. Forbidding darkness. An unforgettable question from an elder posed with such dignity that every corpuscle of diplomacy I could muster wasn't enough to avoid an argument amongst the circle of men that redefined forever my notion of life's absurdity.

That night came back to me while reading an interview with Bob Mould in which he recalled his experience as head writer for the World Wrestling Federation:

The show would go live and I'm sitting behind a curtain as the liaison between the wrestlers and the production people, telling the referee on a wireless earpiece how to direct traffic in the ring so we can make our commercial breaks. I'm doing this for three hours, with explosions, people yelling and bleeding -- chaos! It's a different Broadway show every night.